


Exhibition in Denim

by cereal



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-21 11:12:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1548536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cereal/pseuds/cereal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"No!" the clerk stomps a high-heeled foot. "We are making an example of you! I'm sick of having to remind people the dressing room is not a bloody sex club!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exhibition in Denim

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my TenToo-in-jeans sister-in-arms [lauraxxtennant](http://lauraxxtennant.tumblr.com), on the occassion of her birthday: smutty, denim-based fluff.  HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LAURA! :xx

The thing about jeans, as Rose so patiently explained, standing in the middle of Debenhams with an armload of them, is that if he wants, if he really, truly wants, he can just wear the same pair over and over and over again.

It’ll be just like his suit. No one is expecting him to suddenly turn into the sort of bloke that changes his wardrobe daily, not when he used to change it life-ly. Lifetime-ly? Regeneration-ly?

Whatever.

The point is, she’s not expecting to him to go bananas with it (although, if bringing up a bloody banana will get them out of here quicker, she’s not above it), she just wants him to — well, to give it a shot.

An ostensibly human bloke in an office of other ostensibly human people — _ostensibly_ because it _is_ Torchwood, after all — if he wears the same bloody thing every day, those people will start to talk.

He’s not much of Rose Tyler’s kept man, if she’s only apparently bought him one suit.[[MORE]]

And he’s used to changing his shirt, button-downs and henleys and more button-downs — and seriously, there couldn’t have been more henleys — ties and trainers and pants, he’s got the knack for it, even when he was a full Time Lord, but if consistency is a sticking point, she’s prepared to give in on the denims.

If only he’d pick a damn pair.

“Well, these look good _now_ , Rose,” he’s speaking to her from the other side of the dressing room curtain, presumably preening in the mirror, checking out his bum, the flexibility of the fabric, probably his bum again, “but if I wear them every day, they’ll start to break in and lose their shape. Maybe I need to go a size down. Did they have the next size down?”

It takes no effort at all to heave the pile in her arms over the little rod holding the curtain up.

“Oi!” his head pops out from between the drapes, a pair of jeans perfectly coiled around his shoulders.

“What?” she asks innocently. “They’re in there somewhere.”

He tuts at her. “Just for that, Rose Tyler, I will not be modeling these for you, and they’re going to be _much_ tighter.”

With that, he ducks back between the curtains, and there’s the muffled sound of a zip being lowered, fabric being shuffled, and then something that sounds distinctly like hopping.

She collapses on the rickety wooden chair meant for weary spouses, and though she’s not the latter, she’s definitely the former, and she grabs her mobile from her bag, thumbing through e-mails while she waits.

It’s only when she realizes she’s been able to answer at least four of them without so much as a word from the Doctor that she gets a little worried. Or a little suspicious.

“Doctor?” she calls, rising to speak only a few inches from the gap between the curtains.

“Yep?” he says, but his voice is high, a little forced.

“You OK in there?”

“Yep,” same high, forced voice, and then there’s a sound like a body hitting the wall, the _bang!_ of someone falling.

“Still OK,” he shouts in a rush.

Squinting at the curtain as though she can see right through it, and it’s almost like she can, with the clarity she’s imagining the scene on the other side, she smothers a laugh.

“You’re stuck, aren’t you?”

“….no.”

“Oh, come on, you can say. I won’t laugh. Well, I’ll laugh, but I won’t tell my mum.”

“I’m fine,” he insists, and then there’s that noise like hopping again, another muffled thud against the wall of the dressing room. “I’m fine and only the _slightest_ bit stuck, is what I mean.”

“Do you want me to help you?”

“….no.”

“Do you _need_ me to help you?”

His head emerges from the curtains again, startling her. “Yes.”

“All right, budge over, I’m coming in,” she says, parting the curtains after his head retreats and stepping into the small space.

The room can’t be more than seven feet on any side, a tiny little thing without even so much as a bench, and there’s the Doctor, standing in the middle, a white Beatles t-shirt and the tightest jeans she’s ever seen, the fabric straining over his calves, his thighs, his…bulge. She’s gotten to know that bulge well in the weeks since Bad Wolf Bay, but never anywhere in public, never anywhere with the thrill of getting caught, and it’s giving her ideas, in an abstract sort of way.

“Hang on,” she says, and ducks back out, grabbing the wooden chair and tugging it into the dressing room, placing it up against the back wall. “Sit.”

He follows her orders gently, the fabric of the jeans nearly squeaking as he sits down.

“You can get them off your hips, right? What’s the farthest you can bring them down?”

“My thighs,” he says, and it sounds like a whimper.

She nods, kneeling between his legs and carefully undoing the button and zip of the jeans. She maneuvers them open, the Doctor arching his hips to help, and her fingers graze the ridge of his cock on the way down. He sighs happily.

“Really? _Now_?” She refuses to let on what she’s been thinking, not until she’s certain there’s no risk of him losing circulation — these things are _tight_.

When she’s got the fly open, she slips her hands around his waist, tapping the top of his bum and then fitting her fingers into the barely-loosened waistband. “Arch up.”

He listens and she curls her fingers into the denim, working them down to his thighs, and then gesturing for him to relax back into the chair.

His boxer briefs are bunched awkwardly, the tightness of the jeans forcing them up into the space where his thighs meet his pelvis. With him sitting like he is, he’s pinched even more of the fabric underneath him and it’s causing the leg hole of the left side to gape, revealing a bit of wrinkly pale skin and hair in contrast to the black cotton of his pants.

On impulse, she runs a delicate finger over the skin, the Doctor muffling a yelp beneath her.

"You be nice to those," he warns, "they were all smashed up in these bloody jeans. They're airing out."

Rose rolls her eyes at his dramatics and then sets to work tugging the denim down farther. He stretches his legs out straight and she walks backward on her knees, rolling them down in increments as she goes.

They get caught up around his ankles, the fabric at the hem folded in on itself and she 's leaning back into the curtain, standing now, trying to yank them off.

With one last mighty pull, she tugs and the fabric unfolds, clearing his ankles and feet quickly as she goes tumbling back through the curtains and falls to the ground, the jeans next to her.

In a flash, the Doctor is standing over her in only his black pants and t-shirt, right in the middle of the dressing room's common area.

A sales associate comes storming into the room, spotting Rose on the ground and the Doctor half-dressed.

"Oh no, you don't! We've had enough teenagers trying to pull this rubbish, you two are going to security, you're old enough to know better."

Rose's eyes widen and she catches the Doctor's twin expression out of the corner of her eye.

"Well," the associate says testily. "Put some trousers on! Go!"

The Doctor rushes back into the dressing room and comes stumbling out a moment later in the previous pair of jeans, the ones that had fit but he was worried about losing shape.

The clerk eyes the tags still hanging for the denim. "Will you be purchasing those? Or should I add shoplifting to the charges?"

Rose darts forward, yanking the tag from the Doctor's jeans and then fumbling in her purse for her credit card. "We'll purchase them," she says, handing both items over.

The clerk nods, pointing a finger back and forth between them. "Don't go anywhere, once I ring those up, I'll be right back to escort you to security."

When she leaves, Rose turns to the Doctor. "You couldn't have just put on your own trousers?"

He squares his shoulders, huffy. "What? Those were closest. I thought you liked them?" With that, he turns around, displaying his bum. "I think they look nice."

Rose's eyes take in the look of the jeans, the clingy (but not _too_ clingy, thank god) way they're hugging his arse, and she shrugs.

"Yeah, they do," she says, trying to sound like she's placating him and not full of naughty thoughts.  "I hope they're comfortable, who knows how long they'll keep us in security -- for a crime we didn't even commit, no less."

The Doctor shrugs, and leans back into the dressing room, grabbing his blue trousers and folding them up, before handing them to Rose to put in her bag.

There are still more tags on the back of these new jeans, she'd seen them when she was checking out his bum, and when she's done putting the old trousers away, she spins him around by the hips, pulling the tag off and then dipping a hand under his waistband to grab the little plastic bars holding it in place on the other side.

The clerk returns and shrieks again, waving Rose's credit card in the air. "Once wasn't enough? I'm gone for three minutes and your hand is already back in his pants!"

"It's in my _jeans_ , actually," the Doctor says, tone patient. "My pants are still un-breached." He looks over his shoulder at where Rose is standing behind him. "See what I did there? Pants, breached, _breaches_?"

Rose removes her hand from his jeans and pats him on the back, moving to stand next to him.

"We're sorry, ma'am," she says. "Is there any way you can let us off with a warning?"

"No!" the clerk stomps a high-heeled foot. "We are making an example of you! I'm sick of having to remind people the dressing room is not a bloody sex club!"

The Doctor shrugs, extending his wrists to the clerk.

"What are you doing?" she does not look pleased, looking from the Doctor's wrists to Rose.

"He's letting you him cuff him," Rose says. "Doctor, she's not gonna do that."

The clerk sighs, all fight rushing out of her suddenly. "Come on, let's go."

She leads them to a small, windowless room, with one chair and the imprint of other furniture, probably a desk, on the tile. "Getting new stuff in," the clerk says, gesturing at the marks, as if she's leading them on a tour and not punishing them. 

"Stephen will be back from lunch soon, and he can write up your warning. In the meantime, you stay here. Don't forget I know who you are, Ms. Tyler."

Rose doesn't know if it's from her credit card or from the press, and in case it's the latter, she decides not to push it, nodding in acceptance of the woman's words.

The clerk leaves, the door banging shut behind her. There's not a lock, but it's clearly meant as a message -- do not leave this room. 

The Doctor leans against the painted brick wall, arms crossed over his chest, and nods at the single chair. "You can have it," he says. 

Rose takes a seat, sagging into the chair and peering up at the Doctor. "Well, this is a mess."

"Is it?" the Doctor's mouth lifts in a smile. "Think it's sort of a lark. First time we've gotten into trouble since I've been here."

"And wrongfully accused, as always," Rose adds, returning his smile.

"Do you wanna -- well, we could -- maybe -- we could rectify that?" he says, his eyes scrutinizing the chair Rose sits in, looking thoughtful.

"What?"

He nods at the chair again. "That's a better chair than the one in the dressing room. Sturdier. No arms. We might..." he shrugs, "...earn our punishment?"

" _Here_?"

"Oh, don't get all scandalized with me, Rose Tyler. I saw the way you were looking at me in that dressing room. I'd say it's the jeans, but I'm quite certain it's just me."

Rose shakes her head, laughing. "All right, Doctor. Let's say I'm game, how would you propose we go about it?"

In a jumble of limbs, he rushes forward, lifting her gently out of the chair and taking the seat himself. Then he's guiding her by the hips until she's straddling him, bum on his lap. 

He shifts his hips a few times, glancing to the sides to see where her feet are, and then he's positioning her hands on the back of the chair. 

"There," he says, pleased. "It would be just like that." He arches into her, proving he's right, that the angles are correct.

"We're clothed," she says. 

"Well, _now_ we are, this was just a demonstration. My _plan_ , if you will," he says. "Now it's time to put it into action."

With that, he steers her off his lap, swiftly undoing the button and zip of her jeans and then tugging them down to her ankles. He stops, tapping each of her feet in turn to help her toe off her trainers and pull the denim off, and then he's reaching for the fly of his own jeans, shimmying them down his thighs to his knees, pants in tow. 

He winces when his bum meets the cool, polished wood of the chair, his erection bobbing in front of him, just grazing the fabric of his t-shirt. Then he's guiding Rose to resume her position. 

She's still got her knickers on, and between their bodies, he brushes his hand over the material between her legs, pressing the dampening fabric into her with a soft smirk. 

"Gonna leave these on," he says. "And just move 'em. If the guard comes back, it'll at least leave you _some_ modesty."

"Right," she says. "Because the Vitex heiress shagging her bloke in the security office of a Debenhams is only bad if she's got her knickers off."

"Now you're thinking," he chirps and continues rubbing at her knickers, snaking his fingers down under the elastic until he's probing her entrance. 

It's all been a jumble up until now, just going along with one of the Doctor's mad plans, but as his middle finger dips inside of her, it really hits home what they're doing.

They're shagging, _fucking_ , in a security office, just like she said, almost like she imagined earlier, in the dressing room, but this time it's actually happening, the Doctor's finger is inside of her, he's hard, she's wet, they are #actually going to do this.

There's something thrilling sparking across the base of her spine, the rush of adrenaline and the fear of being caught and an overflowing love for the Doctor, that she can't help but move her mouth to his, kissing him roughly as he works his finger inside of her and then adds a second.

Between their bodies, she manuevers her hand until she can wrap it around his cock, stroking him in the same haphazard way she's sliding her tongue against his. 

They work each other like that for only a few moments more, wet sounds and sighs and hisses filling the room, and then she's shuffling forward on his lap and positioning him at her entrance with one hand while the other braces on the back of the chair. 

He arches up just as she pushes forward and he slides into her easily, the movement causing her jaw to slacken and the kiss to break. 

"Oh, fuck," she breathes against his mouth. 

"Yeah," he mumbles, and then his hands land on her hips, fingers curling into the material of her shirt as he urges her to move.

Her feet are no use, using them for leverage would make him slip from her, so instead she fastens both hands on the back of the chair, one on either side of him, and concentrates on letting him bounce her up and down.

Bounce her on his _cock_ , oh god, what are they _doing_? 

She uses the momentum of their bodies, the way his hips are arching in rhythm beneath hers to help pick up speed. He's not able to draw very far out of her, but the friction in this position is almost obscene. They're so close to each other, his breath on her neck and his legs under her and then his hand is between them, rubbing at her clit in stop-starts while he rumbles in her ear.

"Yeah, yeah," he's panting, "Is that gonna work for you? Oh, god."

She nods against him, too concentrated on the feel of him, the thrill of what they're doing -- someone could come in _right now_ , just open the door and see them like this, see the Doctor buried inside of her, see her riding him -- and it's ratcheting the feeling up higher and higher.

"Rose, you have to come," he pleads, "Fuck, god, fuck."

She nods her head, cheek brushing his sideburn, bottom lip pinched between her teeth. She's so close, so bloody close, and then he's tightening beneath her, no longer rocking into her, but instead inside of her as deep as he can get, and his body shudders, arms moving to wrap around her waist and keep her in place.

He rolls out a broken, whimpering groan as he comes, and that helpless, needy sound is enough, she locks onto it and blows it open wide, and then she's coming around him, catching the last remnants of his orgasm and drawing it out with her own. 

She sags against him in relief, they'd done it, oh my god, they'd actually done it, and he presses a soft kiss to her cheek where her head rests against him.

Suddenly there's a voice on the other side of the door. "Can one you open this for me? Got my hands full."

Rose rockets off him, wincing at the wet feeling between her thighs, and hopping to get her knickers up and find her jeans. 

In front of her, the Doctor pushes up off the chair, the legs of it scraping the floor, and then he's yanking his jeans and pants up, trying to navigate his still hard cock in the tight denim. 

"Just a second!" she calls, finding her jeans and shimmying into them. There's no time for her shoes, so she kicks them into the corner of the room, the one the door will hopefully cover when it opens.

"Good?" the Doctor breathes, smoothing a hand down his chest.

She nods, energy still zipping through her veins and, below it, the slow, warm feeling of having been well-shagged.

The Doctor tugs the door open to reveal Stephen the security guard clutching three large bottles of water awkwardly between two hands. 

On reflex, Rose reaches out to help, taking two of the bottles.

"Ta," Stephen says. And then takes one of them from Rose, handing it to the Doctor. "These are for you, for your trouble. I'm sorry about Cheryl. We checked the tapes and confirmed you weren't doing anything wrong. 

Rose's eyes widen. Tapes? There are cameras? Where are there cameras? Down here?

Stephen shakes his head quickly, inferring. "Oh no, I'm sorry, the cameras are just in the main area, caught you falling out of the room, but you were hardly in there long enough to do anything anyway. Cheryl's just on the hunt for a promotion."

Next to her, the Doctor nods. "Right, well, then, ehm, we'll just go." He hands his bottle to Rose and gestures Stephen out of the door first, quickly pointing for Rose to grab her shoes. He leads Stephen down the hall and Rose steps into her trainers, grabbing her bag and tossing the water bottles in before jogging to catch up with them.

"Anyway, I'm sorry again," Stephen says when they reach the exit to the back area. "You two don't even look the type, I don't know what Cheryl was thinking."

"The type?" the Doctor asks, curious, and Rose cuts her eyes to him, trying to warn him off.

Stephen shrugs. "Yeah, you know, shagging in a store like that, where you could get caught, seems like you'd be smarter than that.

"Yep," the Doctor says, grabbing Rose's hand and leading her out of the hall. "Definitely too smart to get caught."


End file.
